I'll see no more of this;--dog of a prophet! [_Exit_ DORAX.
_M. Mol._ One of these three is a whole hecatomb,
And therefore only one of them shall die:
The rest are but mute cattle; and when death
Comes like a rushing lion, couch like spaniels,
With lolling tongues, and tremble at the paw:
Let lots again decide it. [_The Three draw again; and the
Lot falls on_ SEBASTIAN.
_Sebast._ Then there's no more to manage: if I fall,
It shall be like myself; a setting sun
Should leave a track of glory in the skies.--
Behold Sebastian, king of Portugal.
_M. Mol._ Sebastian! ha! it must be he; no other
Could represent such suffering majesty.
I saw him, as he terms himself, a sun
Struggling in dark eclipse, and shooting day
On either side of the black orb that veiled him.
_Sebast._ Not less even in this despicable now,
Than when my name filled Afric with affright,
And froze your hearts beneath your torrid zone.
_Bend._ [_To M. Mol._]
Extravagantly brave! even to an impudence
Of greatness.
_Sebast._ Here satiate all your fury:
Let fortune empty her whole quiver on me;
I have a soul, that, like an ample shield,
Can take in all, and verge enough for more.
I would have conquered you; and ventured only
A narrow neck of land for a third world,
To give my loosened subjects room to play.
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